"David!" he exclaimed.

Drexley turned upon him sharply.

"You know him?"

Douglas nodded.

"Yes," he said. "It is David Strong. He is mad."

"You know that it was he--"

"Yes." Drexley drew a long breath.

"Look at him," he said, softly. "To-night he is safe--quite harmless.
Some one has been giving him money. He is quite drunk. Thank God!"

Douglas stared at him--surprised.

"Drunk," Drexley explained, quietly, "he is safe. He will curl down in
some odd corner somewhere soon and sleep till morning. There are other
times when I have followed him about for hours, when I have seen the
knife bulge in his pocket, and known that murder was in his heart. I
have dogged him about the streets then till daylight--from her house to
theatre steps, to concert rooms, restaurants, and private houses.
Anywhere, where he imagined that she might be. I have seen him loiter
about the pavements for hours, when the canvas archway and awning has
been put out from one of the great West-end houses, just in the hope
that she might be amongst the guests. So far he has been unlucky, but
some day I feel that for all my watching they will meet, and then may